


At Last!

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Clueless Sam, Don't copy to another site, Embedded Images, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Frottage, Heist, Kissing, M/M, Post-Episode: s06e18 Frontierland, SFW Images, Season/Series 06, Slow Dancing, fic with art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Stir-crazy, with no sign of Eve on their radar, Sam and Dean divert to the local country club to steal a weapon for a fellow hunter. Won’t be their first time pulling a heist by posing as a couple of party guests. Posing as acouple, though… That’s new.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 22
Kudos: 144





	At Last!

**Author's Note:**

> [Emberthrace](https://emberthrace.livejournal.com/), what can I even say? We’re in fanfic writer’s bucket-list territory here. What a blessing, what a gift, to trust me with your art—which… :') [These pictures](https://emberthrace.livejournal.com/2804.html) evoke instant empathy. Colorful, soulful, arch. Dean’s cheeky grin plus Sam’s blushy cheeks, crackling and heartthumping. _Real._ I love them so much.
> 
> [Nisaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki), I treasure your voice, your magic, your conversation. Thank you, forever and ever. 💜
> 
> Bonus Playlist: [Soul Sugar](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLEiGQRh-pLuW8HG0mRBUF4-5em2h3py2x)

Sam scrolls the weird news, tries not to grind his teeth.

 _Thump-slap!_ Dean chucks a high-bounce ball against the kitchen cupboards. _Thump-slap!_ Playing catch with himself. _Thump-slap!_ And Sam’s about ready to choke him until he passes out, when—

“I got a job for you idjits.” Bobby saves him.

“Thank fuck.” Ten days. They need to move. Ever since their Wild West adventure, they’ve been cooped up with the phoenix ash, searching for signs of Eve.

“Deb Townsend—y’all remember Deb? We worked that wraith together—”

“In Fayetteville.” Dean finishes with him.

“She’s the one.” Bobby nods. “Huntin’ an alp up around Mankato. Y’all are gonna get her a weapon.”

“Road trip!” Dean punches the air. “Sweet!”

“Hold on, hold your horses.” Bobby hands Sam a printed brochure for the Hawthorn Ridge Country Club. “Y’all gotta _get_ her a weapon before you can get her a weapon.”

Sam squints. “I don’t understand.”

“Only way to get rid of an alp is to stake it with the wood of a Huld’s alder. They’re extinct, but,” he tips his chin at the paper, “that country club has a piece in the executive lounge.”

“So, B-and-E, then a road trip!” Dean says. “This job just keeps gettin’ better!”

Sam rubs his forehead.

Bobby scoffs. “Y’all won’t be able to just, pick the locks and stroll in there.”

“Well, what’s the plan then?” Dean asks.

“Hell if I know, boy! _You’ve_ been America’s Most Wanted; you figure it out.” Bobby stalks back to his study.

Sam pulls up the gallery on the club’s website. “Check this out.”

Dean curls behind him. Warm breath washes his cheek.

“Cameras, see?” Goosebumps prickle Sam’s neck. “Keycard locks.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“And what’ll you bet it’s a state-of-the-art alarm system?”

Dean paces to the fridge and back, scratching his chin. “I got it!” He kicks Sam’s chair. “Scoot.”

Sam gives up the laptop, takes his turn at Dean’s shoulder.

“Ha!” Dean clicks on _Scheduled Events_. “There’s a wedding reception there tomorrow night.”

“And…” Sam smells his aftershave.

“We got us a hand of glory situation.” Dean chin-tips, smirks almost against Sam’s jawbone. “You remember? Grabby Gertrude?”

“Yeah, Dean, thanks.” Sam steps back, skin tingling.

“Anyway.” Dean claps his hands, rubs his palms. “We’ll get dolled up, sneak in, and boom!”

“If you say so…” Sam thinks back. Dean in that tux, Bela looking at him like her next big score. Grabby Gertie was the least of Sam’s problems.

“Tell you what.” Dean gets up from the table. “You run background on the happy couple, I’ll get the club blueprints from City Hall.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sam takes his spot back.

Dean’s keys jingle and the screen door slams. Sam sighs, pulls up PeopleSearch.

*

Dean lounges behind the wheel as they watch the entrance. Pale blue dress shirt, open collar. Sunset gleams red-gold, highlights his profile. Motown cover band spills out from a pair of glass crash doors, propped open to let in the cool spring night.

_“…signed, sealed, delivered, I’m yours!”_

Dean drums the wheel. Bites his lip and grins across the seat. Sam heats up, under the weight of Dean’s eyes on him. Sweaty half moons spread from under his arms, and he shivers.

Suits and sundresses stream out in a cluster, fan out from the entrance and light cigarettes.

Four, maybe five minutes later Dean says, “Let’s move.”

Windows up, suit jackets on. Sam runs a hand through his hair and peeks in the side mirror.

“You’re beautiful, Frances, come on.” Dean rolls his eyes dramatically.

Sam flips him the bird.

They fall in with a group headed back inside, into a lobby-turned-cocktail lounge. Sandwich board reads: _ELLIE & PETE, OUR JOURNEY BEGINS_. Sam scans. People, weapons, exits. Fake candles flicker in heavy sconces. Dark leather sofas make conversation groups with ottomans and armchairs; shocking orange and pink flower arrangements spray the tables.

Dean gets Sam by an elbow and steers him past the crowd around the bar, into the ballroom. Under a dim chandelier, bridesmaids dance in a circle, swirling in more of that orange and pink. Caterers scurry, clearing empty plates and filling carafes. Sam takes a breath. They’ve never been to a wedding like this in their lives.

Twin exit signs glow green on the far wall. Small stage with a cake table rises between. Dean nudges Sam— _Some kind of knife up there_. Kitchen on the left, behind a row of batwing doors with bright-lit portholes. To their right, floor-to-ceiling windows frame perfectly manicured gardens and provide a glittering backdrop for the band— _SOUL SUGAR_ , according to the bass drum.

“See the stairs?” On their left, spiraling and roped off. “Executive lounge is up there.” Dean points with his chin.

“Great. We’ll be super-inconspicuous.”

“Y’know...” Dean rakes Sam up and down. “My date fainted, the last time I pulled a heist like this.”

Sam’s dry swallow undermines his attempted glare.

“Except, I can't carry your giant ass, so…”

Stevie Wonder plays out and the band slides smooth into their next number.

“I figure,” Dean points finger guns at the small stage, “once they cut the cake, we’ll make a break for it.”

_“…are you ready for a brand-new beat?”_

Sam scratches behind his neck. Dean still holds his elbow, promenading him across a dark carpet stitched with golden paisleys. The pattern makes Sam’s head swim. “I could use a drink,” he mutters.

Dean bows. “One Shirley Temple, coming up.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Soda with lime, please.”

“As the lady wishes.”

“Dick.”

Dean strides off towards the bar line. Couples, finally, join the dancing. A videographer climbs the main stage and starts a sweep. Sam ducks to the cocktail lounge. Catches:

“…a beautiful ceremony…”

“…give it two years…”

“…band’s pretty good!”

Dean drops a twenty in the tip jar, trades smoky smiles with the bartender and collects their drinks.

“Open bar!” he gloats as he hands over Sam’s soda, squeezes Sam’s fingers. “We should crash more weddings!”

“Say it louder, dumbass.”

Dean licks his lips and winks, sips on his beer.

Sam raises his glass to his mouth and mumbles, “You figure out the keycard situation yet?”

“Sammy, you wound me.” Dean pats over his inside pocket. “Rolled the rent-a-cop by the bar.” He stands so close Sam can smell his beer breath.

They people-watch. Sam nods and _mm-hms_ while Dean rages against, _“the wedding-industrial complex.”_

“Like, those fuckin’ dresses. What kind of bitch?”

Sam sees his point. Ellie’s bridesmaids look miserable, stuffed into fluttery, bright orange halter gowns with hot pink sashes.

“Those girls spent real money on that shit, and they didn’t even get a vote.” Dean tips his bottle, fingers delicate around the neck. Lips purse and his throat works.

Horny guests check them out—Dean, mostly, but for once, Dean barely flirts back. He holds Sam’s gaze, hangs in his peripheral, keeps Sam’s drink fresh, flashes smiles…

“The hell’s a dollar dance?” Dean jars him out of his reverie.

“I…” Sam shakes his head. “No idea.”

The floor clears, and the bride joins a gray-haired man—her father, Sam guesses, for sure not the groom—down below the main stage. Piano leads out “Unforgettable” and the bride laughs; tears gleam on the old man’s face.

They dance, maybe, half the first verse. Then a groomsman who can only be her brother—he’s her spitting image—waves a twenty-dollar bill in the air as he cuts in on their dad. The bride takes the cash and tucks it in a wrist pouch.

Sam blinks. In short order a line forms: all the groomsmen, random guys from around the room. Even the little ring-bearer, decked out in orange shorts with a pink bowtie. He gets scooped up, spun around and smooched while he squirms.

“This is fucked up,” Sam says. “Kinda… stripper-y, isn’t it?”

“Ah, I dunno, it’s easy money, Sammy; I ain’t one to judge.”

And Sam’s gotta hand it to Ellie, she greets the string of drunken uncles with serenity, even three songs in.

“I think she’s danced with the whole place,” Dean says.

Sam eyes him. “Not the whole place.”

Dean scoffs. “Well, we ain’t trying to get busted.”

Last in line, the groom.

Onstage the band transitions. “At laaaast,” the guitar player’s smoky voice booms through the speakers.

All alone, under the chandelier, Pete takes Ellie in his arms, stiff as a kid at his first dance. Ellie beams, sways into him. They turn and turn, whisper and laugh. Glasses clink from every corner and they blush, turn their eyes down.

_“…and then the spell was cast…”_

Then at last, they kiss, and cheers break out as the song ends.

“Everyone,” the guitarist croons, “please join our happy couple in celebrating this magic moment, their first dance.”

And boy, does he mean everyone. Sam and Dean linger in the cocktail lounge as it empties.

“C’mon.” Dean hooks their elbows. “Too conspicuous out here all alone.”

Sam stumbles after him, to the dance floor. Blood pounds in his ears and his fingers tingle.

_“…it took me by surprise…”_

Dean spins, slips an arm around Sam. “I’ll lead.” And he takes Sam’s hand in his free one.

Sam nods, numb. Dean glides, bumps their thighs. Sam’s feet feel like concrete. Knees like Jell-O. Dean, though—Sam wants to smack him—he’s… graceful.

“Ow!” Dean barks. “Watch the feet, Sasquatch.”

“Uh. Sorry.” Sam trips again.

Dean smirks.

_“…when your lips are close to mine…”_

His tongue peeks, eyelashes fan—

“Oof!”

“Aww,” Dean mocks him. “Ain’t your fault, I guess, being a Bigfoot.”

“You know what? Fuck you.”

Dean laughs against him. Presses his fingers to Sam’s back. He feels Dean’s hips shift, tries to compensate.

“Just relax, man.” Dean twirls. Sam only muffs it a little.

Not much difference, when he thinks about it, between this and following Dean on a hunt.

Dean spins him again and this time Sam’s ready.

“There you go!” Dean’s broad grin almost glows in the low light.

Sam lets go. Tunes into his brother’s body. Puts himself in his brother’s hands.

They sync.

Dean pulls closer, tucks their tangled fingers against his chest. Sam forgets the other dancers. Dean fills his senses, smiling, squeezing.

“Definitely should crash more weddings,” and Dean’s chin tilts.

Harmony. Crescendo.

_“…’til the end of time!”_

Dean whirls around three, four turns, fucking dips Sam. Nearby, guests scatter. Dean tucks a loose lock of hair behind Sam’s ear. Sam licks his lips—

“Friends and family,” the guitar player booms, “please direct your attention to the small stage! We’re gonna cut that cake!”

“That’s our cue!” Dean pops up. Guides Sam towards the stairs and scoops up an unattended swag bag. Never takes his hand off Sam’s back.

*

The executive lounge embraces its stereotype. Dark wood paneling, more of those chocolatey leather seats. Gleaming hardwood peeks around a Persian-style rug. Walk-in humidor. Tall windows here look out on the vast green golf course.

“Whoa, dude!” Dean sees their target and cracks up. “Somebody’s happy!”

Sam backhands him. Dean peers, tilts his head. Under a thick glass dome, maybe a foot tall, ancient, lacquered wood.

“‘Freyr,” Dean snickers over a bronze placard. “Norse god of virility.’ I’ll fuckin’ say!”

Freyr has a large erection. Thick as his arm, it juts proudly, almost to his chin. He smiles under a pointy hat that’s topped with a second cockhead. One hand strokes his long beard and the other rests on his knee.

Dean reads, “‘Carved from the rare, extinct Huld’s alder. Prized in Scandinavian lore…’ You know… I kinda hate to bust this up.”

Sam’s eyes slide closed. “Are you really gonna get sentimental about—”

“This is O-G porn, Sammy, show some respect!” Dean pulls a bandana out of his pocket, wraps it around and lifts the glass, sets it gently on the carpet. “Son of a bitch.” He springs up, shoves the statue in his swag bag. “Time to go!”

“Dean, what—”

“No bigs, just, tripped an alarm.” Dean shrugs. “Back exit!” He dashes towards the office block at the rear of the building.

Their purloined keycard takes them through the steel double-doors, into a dimly lit hallway bathed in safety blue. Dark fluorescent panels hang above; dense carpet whispers below. Everything is an inoffensive gray and white. And at the end, glowing green, freedom.

They hit the stairwell running. Race down the concrete steps, hands grazing the rails. On the ground:

_FIRE EXIT ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND._

or,

 _KITCHEN_.

Sam votes, “The quiet way.”

“We won’t exactly blend in.”

_“Y’know... My date fainted.”_

Sam steps up to Dean, says, “Ferris Bueller,” and collapses.

Dean bites on the code for fake-sick. He shoulders up under Sam’s arm, hoists and manhandles him into the kitchen. A dishwasher gives them the eye.

“Excuse me.” Dean waves him over. “My boyfriend—”

Heat floods Sam’s face.

“I dunno, he got a bad clam for lunch or something.” Dean pats Sam’s chest, fingers scratch and circle. “We don’t wanna bring the party down, but—”

Dry-mouthed, Sam smacks his tongue. Head lolls against Dean’s neck.

“Any chance you could score us a ginger ale?” Dean bats his eyelashes.

“ _Un momento_ ,” the dishwasher sighs, hustles away.

“Some acting job, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, “you’re sweatin’ all over me.”

Subtle, shuffle-steps towards the staff exit.

“Fuck.” Dean glances across the room. “That’s the guard I robbed.”

Talking to a red-haired woman in chef’s whites, inside the far doors. Their eyes come up.

“Hey!”

“The loud way,” Sam sighs, and they spin, break back towards the fire door. Dean shoves a dish trolley in the path behind them. Shouting. Dishes smash and sirens screech as they burst into sweet night air. They haul ass through the employee parking lot. Dress shoes slap the blacktop and their jackets flap.

“False alarm, folks, false alarm,” somebody’s calling. Wedding guests stream out the front. “We’ll have a fire truck here shortly, get you guys back to the party.”

Sam counts three guards, shepherding the crowd. None of them even glances his way. He runs full-out. Makes good time, unencumbered by the statue.

“Keys!” Dean yells.

Glint in the streetlight, Sam catches on the run. Pops the trunk and Dean skids in laughing, drops the swag bag, slams the lid—

Sam gasps.

Dean seizes him, pins him to the back bumper and kisses him. Warm lips contrast to cool steel. Dean fists in his hair. Eyes shocked wide but Sam groans, kisses back on pure reflex.

“Let’s roll!” Dean says, and leaves Sam thunderstruck, staring, touching his tingling lips.

*

The sun’s coming up when they finally check into the Mankato Motel. Ragged, soaked in alp guts, triumphant.

“First shower?” Dean offers. He’d blasted the radio the whole drive from Sioux Falls, left Sam stewing in head-splitting silence.

“Dean—”

“Get clean.” Dean pats his chest “Then we’ll talk about whatever you want.”

Sam nods dumbly.

_I’m not gonna let you die, period._

Steam plumes and water streams hot down Sam’s back.

_I don't want ten years. I don't want one year._

Shampoo suds swirl around Sam’s feet.

_Bring him back._

Sam dries off, gets dressed and finds Dean waiting by the sink. He bumps Sam’s hip as they switch places and Sam slumps to his bed. Dean’s shower fires up. Sam flops back, sinks in the mattress and the white noise.

 _“One year.”_ Dean tried to burn forever so Sam could live.

 _“Howdy, boys.”_ He’d strolled into Stull expecting Lucifer to murder him.

Sam sits up when the bathroom door clicks. Dean struts out in damp boxers, rubbing a towel on his head and billowing steam like a rock star. Smile hits Sam square in the chest.

“You-uh,” Sam starts. “You gave me a lot of time to think.”

Dean hooks an eyebrow. “S’your favorite thing to do. You’re welcome.”

“Dick!” Sam breathes and Dean smirks. “Nevertheless…”

“Nevertheless?”

“Will you shut up?” Sam waits for a wisecrack that doesn’t come.

Dean kneels between Sam’s feet. Slides a palm up Sam’s breastbone and curls it under his jaw. “You sure?” Dean’s lips shine.

Sam nods, lets Dean guide him. Damp brush, soft squeeze.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes.

Sam opens. Tongues graze. Toothpaste and humidity. He cups Dean’s neck with both palms. “How long?”

“Uh…” Pink blossoms on Dean’s cheeks. “Always, kinda.” He looks down. Lashes cast shadows like smudges. “But especially since I got you back.”

 _Hell or California_ , Sam doesn’t ask. Turns Dean loose, twists and stretches on the bed.

“Damn, dude.” Dean’s mouth curves, face-to-face with Sam’s erection. He moves so smooth all Sam sees is a flying leap, and Dean brackets his hips, cages his shoulders. Lips collide. Dean combs Sam’s hair and winds his fingers in the strands. Grinds. “You wanna come tonight, little brother?”

Sam moans, hard instantly. Dean lifts him. Breaks off kissing long enough to strip him. Fingers, gentle on his chest, tickle at his ribs. Sam holds Dean’s hips and lets his brother feel him up. Hangs on him. Licking, nipping. Dean grunts, grabs behind Sam’s head and plunges in again. Sam fights back. Tongues press, slick combat.

Panting, Dean halts. Searches Sam’s eyes and Sam presses their foreheads together. He skates a palm down Dean’s back, slips inside his shorts. Dean rumbles.

Sam breaks. In a thousand stretched-taut moments: lingering, longing looks, smacked thighs, squeezed elbows and _Sammys_. Inundating. Sam soaks it up like cracked dirt.

Dean lays him gentle on the bed. Hovers. One knee, one foot and one elbow while he unties Sam’s sweatpants. Sam surges. Dick jumps against Dean’s wrist and Dean’s tongue gleams, pinned between his teeth. Sam hoists his hips, lets Dean drag his pants down, shorts and all, baring Sam’s twitching cock to the cool air and the low light.

Dean blankets him. Double fistful of hair, he rakes teeth up Sam’s neck, breathes in his ear, “I wanna spend _days_ lightin’ you up.”

Sam trembles.

“Figure out all the sounds I can fuck outta you.”

Sharp nip at his earlobe makes Sam yelp.

“That’s one.” Dean kisses Sam’s jawbone. Sucks the tender skin below Sam’s chin. Cocks stick-jump-slide and Sam bucks, ripples underneath. “Ain’t gonna last long.” Sweat beads at Dean’s hairline.

Sam thumbs it away. “Me neither.”

Dean grins. Sam digs down and captures them in one fist. Spread-fingered squeeze.

They sync.

“Fuck, Sammy.”

Precome blurts, pubes tangle and Dean thrusts. Glimmering skin, clenched abs. Dean’s nose curls, concentrating.

“Dean, let go,” Sam says. “I wanna see.”

And Dean yells. Drenches Sam as his thighs clamp. Sam’s pulse pounds, ears thunder. Bursts, afterbursts, and sweats. Dean crashes sideways as his arms give. Sam shudders. Dean covers his hand, locks lips on his neck. Flagging cock nestles next to Sam’s hip. Sam fucks their entwined fingers as Dean mouths, teeths at Sam’s shoulder. Ragged breathing. Clinging. Sam reels Dean in and kisses him until it burns.

Dean tries, not very hard, to rouse Sam for a shower. Sam answers by gluing himself tighter against Dean’s side. Puff of laughter in his hair, lips on his forehead. Sam sleeps against Dean’s chest, ankles overlapped.

**Author's Note:**

> Please go cheer for [emberthrace on LiveJournal](https://emberthrace.livejournal.com/2804.html), and [share us on Tumblr](https://laughablelament.tumblr.com/post/625557934222508032/after-last-years-spnreversebang-signups-open).
> 
> Title cribbed from the lady Ms. Etta James


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